Sherlock's Return v 1
by OhMyScience
Summary: Sherlock returns to 221B after a few years. Essentially in the fluffy category when it comes to John's reactions. The show/characters belong to the wonderful BBC.


John stared up at him now, with those hard, army-worn eyes. Sherlock looked down at him, holding his gaze. The gaze was calculating; Sherlock was obviously waiting to see what John Watson would do next. John _had_ just come home, only to find Sherlock Holmes – alive – standing in the living room of 221B.

Suddenly, John slumped into him and hugged him full force. His arms encircled Sherlock's thin waist, clinging on as if he was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Sherlock slid his arms around the other man, lowering his head to rest it on John's shoulder. He bent a bit to compensate for John's shorter stature. He buried his face into Sherlock's scarf. Sherlock could feel him shaking with silent sobs. John's arms tightened around him, his hands grabbing at his coat. Sherlock felt tears building up in his own eyes as well. Three years it had been since that day on the roof of St. Bart's. Being away from John had been torture; he hadn't realized it until he was sitting alone, miles away from the flat. Miles away from John, someone he evidently needed to have by his side.

"Sh-Sherlock. I thought you were dead – for three years . . ." John's voice cracked, muffled by Sherlock's coat and scarf. He rubbed John's back soothingly. "Please, tell me you're real," John whispered, almost inaudible to Sherlock's ears. "This can't be another nightmare. It just can't."

They stood there, just embracing. John couldn't believe this was happening. Only in his dreams, as well as his nightmares, did he imagine the consulting detective would miraculously reappear, alive and well. And yet, here he was – the man he held was real, not a figment of his imagination. Too many times had he woken up, only to be heartbroken once more when he realized Sherlock had not come home.

Sherlock straightened up, clearing his throat and wiping his eyes. Then, he placed one hand on John's shoulder, another on his cheek. John stiffened, but accepted the touch. He sniffled and seemed to be looking anywhere but at Sherlock.

"Hey," Sherlock said in his deep voice. John then looked up at him, his eyes red from crying. His eyes lacked that previous spark they once had three years ago. Over that period of time, it had gone. There had been no danger, no case to catch his attention; nothing to stimulate his veteran mind. But Sherlock could see a new spark; the spark of hope. Hope that things could be just like they used to. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The consulting detective and the doctor, once more a pair.

Sherlock gave a small grin and said, "I'm real. I am Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, and I. Am. _Real_. I'm alive, John. It was all a trick – just a magic trick. I said that before; don't you remember?" Sherlock dropped his hands.

The army doctor rubbed his face in concentration, like he always had done. John sighed, shaking his head the slightest bit. "Should have known you'd pull something like this," he burst out, even daring to laugh a little. His look was incredulous; he didn't know what to think. He could still barely process the onset of emotions that hit him as soon as he came through the door moments earlier. The laughter felt foreign to him; it was probably one of the few times he had laughed in years.

Sherlock pulled him in for another hug, the sound of his deep laugh mixing with John's trademark giggle.

"So," John said after he pulled away. "Care for some coffee then?"

"Black, two sugars," Sherlock stated, as if John didn't already know after being with him for quite some time before his fake suicide. Even if they had been only flat mates – no. Sherlock corrected himself. John was more than that. He was _still_ his only friend.

Absently, he noticed the flat had been relatively untouched since that day. His violin was thoughtfully propped up against his once most favored chair; his science equipment still atop the table in the kitchen. Even some of the newspapers lay in piles on the coffee table, some "Suicide of Fake Genius" headlines visible beneath the pile. On top sat that wretched deerstalker; but Sherlock smiled, amused by the fact that John had chosen to keep it.

Sherlock felt something odd in his chest; emotion he'd never felt before. He realized it was relief. Relief that John had accepted him back into his life. Relief that they still shared a brotherly bond. It was mixed with happiness; greater happiness then he had felt in a long time.

John was heading into the kitchen to brew the coffee, but Sherlock stopped him, putting a hand on his arm. John looked up at him expectantly.

"John I . . . I know I'm not good with these things . . . sentiment and all. But – I just wanted you to know – I was lost . . . so _very_ lost without my blogger."


End file.
